


Jamais Vu

by Onesmartcookie78



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Beta Read!, Childhood Friends, Childhood Sweethearts, Childhood Trauma, Creepy Mark Jefferson, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Cute Kids, Death Is an Office Building, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Drug Abuse, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Family Drama, Female Character of Color, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Lots of drama, Mark Jefferson Is His Own Warning, Max Just Wants Chloe to Live, Nathan Prescott Has Rewind Powers, Nathan Prescott Is a Sad Boi, OC Remembers Rewinds, OC is a Transmigrator, POV Alternating, POV Max, POV Original Character, Present Tense, Recreational Drug Use, Reincarnation, Rewind Powers (Life Is Strange), Thanks Cuz, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel Fix-It, Underage Drinking, they all just want to be happy, yay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:27:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onesmartcookie78/pseuds/Onesmartcookie78
Summary: "Jamais Vu": an expression often defined as being the opposite of déjà vu; that is to say, the feeling of experiencing a situation for the first time, despite logically knowing you've been through it before.Enter Camille Villeneuve, whose life started getting strange when Nathan Prescott's dad married her mother, and only got worse from then on.Join my Discord!
Relationships: Maxine "Max" Caulfield/Chloe Price, Nathan Prescott/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The usual warnings for Life Is Strange apply, as do the usual disclaimers when writing fanfiction. 
> 
> Shout-out to my cousin for letting me bounce ideas off her, and for Beta-reading!
> 
> Also, this story is inspired by "The Listening" by ChichiriCatSan; it's exceptional, and if you haven't read it, I recommend that you check it out. Obviously the general concept of this story is slightly different, but this is the work that made me want to write a fanfic for this archive, and the author has inspired my own portrayal of Nathan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The question of how long they've known each other is probably better off being asked as "when haven't they known each other?" instead.

Mr. Prescott is angry again.

She’s not sure why, just that he is.

She doesn’t _actually_ know this for certain, but it’s pretty obvious based on how Nathan has been treating her today. He barely says a word to her, which isn’t unusual in and of itself, but he doesn’t allow her to hug him or hold his hand either. Red flags go off in her brain immediately, little alarm bells that send her into hyper-awareness, cause her to analyze his every move. His posture is stiff, and he’s so ginger when he stands that she wants to reach out to help him, but she forces herself to refrain. He’ll be defensive, he’ll withdraw, and he won’t trust her, won’t confide in her, for at least the next week.

She can’t stand to think of _that_ happening again.

She’d been at his house, once, when Mr. Prescott had gotten angry.

Nathan had told her to hide.

She did.

And when he’d come back, he’d held himself the same way he was now, like he was trying to will himself to invisibility, to disappear.

They never played at his house after that day.

It makes Camille’s heart ache to see him like this.

She doesn’t say anything when she sits down next to him, because he doesn’t need her to make him feel worse about the situation. Instead, she tries to act like things are normal. She asks him if he’s done the math homework and if she can copy it. She tells him that she hasn’t really seen her mom very much recently, and she’s been spending more time with Gloria as a result—well, Gloria and Teresa, the former being her comically too-big-for-her Great Pyrenees, and the latter being her nanny.

It hurts to admit that this, too, is a common occurrence.

But it’s part of why she feels a certain camaraderie towards her blonde friend. She doesn’t know if this is how he feels in return. But when she’s rambling on about how she plans to visit her grandmother this weekend, and how he really should come with her, he slings his arm around the back of her chair, and she suspects that maybe he does.

Despite everything, her heart warms. They’re too young for the hand the fates have deal them, for all the pain they’ve already had to go through in their short ten years.

But she’s pretty sure that if they’re together, they can survive anything.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dynamic duo becomes more of a manic-depressive single and the girl he occasionally speaks to. Also, Camille has a whole life and backstory outside of Nathan, which is totally wild lmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to anyone who commented or left kudos! I'm so excited with the response that this story has received that I'm actually releasing this chapter a little earlier than I had planned to. Please continue to let me know what you like (or even dislike) about this story!
> 
> Personally, I don't have bipolar disorder, so the majority of my knowledge comes from the DSM-5. I actually also just watched an episode of Modern Love (TV anthology series on Prime) starring Anne Hathaway as a bipolar woman struggle with her manic episodes and her depressive ones, so if you're looking for good representation of mental illness (specifically bipolar disorder, obviously) then check it out. It's really interesting!

She thinks their relationship changes around when they turn eleven and Marie—sorry, her mother—insists that Camille attend boarding school. In all fairness, a lot of the wealthy families in Arcadia Bay send their children to boarding school. Even Nathan will be going to boarding school.

_Being out of the house and away from Mr. Prescott should be good for him._

The difference is that Marie Villeneuve had chosen to send Camille to her alma mater. In _France_. Marseilles, to be precise.

_And away from Nathan and Mr. Prescott, Nathan who needed her, Nathan who relied—_

Camille knows her mother just wants the best for her. But she isn’t sure why “what’s best” has to mean being an entire continent away from her best friend.

Which, obviously, is her dog, Gloria.

She makes this joke to Nathan, who scowls in disbelief, his arms crossed, hair sticking out at odd angles as it curls in on itself. His scornful expression is marred by his pajamas, so instead she giggles, laughs at her friend who just _had_ to be one of the last people to see her off for her early morning flight. She laughs until she starts crying, and his scowl falters long enough for him to rub at the back of his neck before reaching for her.

“Jeez,” he says, “if you wanted a hug, you should have just asked.”

She writes Nathan as frequently as she can, sending him emails and handwritten letters alike.

Sometimes his replies are genuine, others they’re written in a shaky hand that belies his struggles. Sometimes they’re even tear stained.

He starts having dreams, terrible dreams of a giant storm ready to destroy them all.

Through his descriptions, Camille swears she can see what he does. It’s with terrifying accuracy—the kind that makes her nervous—that the image of the storm whirls through her imagination.

His emails are somehow more erratic than his letters. Sometimes he’s happy, vibrant; everything is beautiful and perfect and he’s doing well without her. Others, he’s melancholy, casually brooding in a way that makes her heart ache. He sends her photos to accompany his emails, black and white pieces that sometimes border on disturbing, challenging her idea of what constitutes art.

His photos are sharp, inspired, and despite the content, his technique is so good that she can’t help but want to be better too.

It becomes more difficult to find the time to write him, as they get older. They maintain their email correspondence, but give up on snail mail save for birthday cards. She keeps all of his previous letters anyway, bundles them up with red string and stores them in her bedside drawer.

The difficulty is in part due to her classes, but also because of Nathan’s inconsistency. He swings like a pendulum more frequently than ever, and his depressing messages turn into long disappearances during which she can’t get a hold of him at all. When they’re fifteen, he vanishes from her inbox for an entire year, and he doesn’t even make an appearance when she visits home for Christmas. She still emails him her photography, which is light, fragile, airy compared to his own gritty realism. She hopes he looks at it and remembers that there’s still good in the world, the way that when she looks at his, she remembers life really is dark sometimes.

Still, he doesn’t reply, and Camille is more alone than ever.

Nathan and Gloria and Teresa had been all that Camille had. All that she had wanted, in fact; she’d always had trouble interacting with girls her own age, had always been more comfortable in a room full of adults than in the lunchroom without Nathan at her side.

Nathan himself had tended towards asocial, often drawing in on himself, disassociating from those around them. The difference was that he had been capable of throwing on the charm, competent at pretending; he could be gloom and doom one moment, and casual charisma the next.

But not in between. Never in between.

Camille isn’t like that. Camille isn’t like Nathan. She feels _disconnected_ , somehow; like no matter where she is, she doesn’t belong.

She buries herself in schoolwork to make up for it, but no matter her grades or her achievements, her loneliness fails to fade. None of it makes up for the Nathan-sized hole in her heart. More than anything, she worries about him. She isn’t angry or sad or disappointed. She’s concern personified. Especially when Teresa, who now takes care of Gloria and her mother, tells her that Nathan has been attending a lot of parties lately, that the townspeople either think he’s an asshole or crazy. Rumor has it that Sean Prescott’s looking for someone to prescribe his son medication rather than for therapists.

It doesn’t surprise her, and she aches for home.

The only good thing to come of her current arrangement is Principal Bisset, who happens to be one of Camille’s mother’s old friends. She invites Camille to tea a few times, tells her about what Marie had been like when she was younger, about how Marie had immigrated to Portland fresh out of university so she could study law. Camille’s grandparents had apparently been furious with this development, which was likely why Camille would never meet the Algerian side of her family. But Principal Bisset had mentioned little to nothing of Camille’s father, and as interesting as her stories are, Camille longs for more.

She longs to see her grandmother, who she’s visited maybe twice in her whole life. Grandmother belongs to the Clatsop-Nehalem Confederated Tribe, as had Camille’s father. But it isn’t like Grandmother and Marie ever spoke: in fact, Grandmother had always blamed Marie for his death. It probably hadn’t helped that Marie wasn’t Native American, hadn’t been married to Ben, and had ultimately supported his decision to leave the Tribe.

In all fairness, as far as Camille is aware, Marie blames Grandmother for Ben’s death too. The truth lies somewhere in between: the official story is that he’d been killed by a drunk driver on the way to the hospital. He’d been coming from Grandmother’s house.

She supposes she holds a piece of the blame, too, for having the audacity to be born on that day.

But that’s the official story. Because even though Grandmother and Marie have never spoken to Camille about Ben, it’s common knowledge that her father had been a private investigator, and that some suspected his death hadn’t been an accident after all. She’s probably supposed to care about this, about the man she shares DNA with who is dead, but she’s never known him, so how can she mourn? How can she mourn what she’s never known?

It’s only two days after her sixteenth birthday _—from the sixteenth anniversary of his death—_ that she receives a _literal_ engraved invitation from her mother.

_Dear Camille,_

_You are cordially invited to the wedding of Marie Villeneuve and Sean Prescott on—_

She stops reading.

And for the first time in over a year, calls Nathan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Camille and Nathan speak for the first time in forever *sings it like we're in Frozen*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks so much for the response this story has received! If you do like it, please comment! Comments mean quicker updates, and that I prioritize this story over the two others that I'm currently writing. Kudos are great as well, but you can only leave them once--comments are unlimited ;)

Nathan sounds both trashed and half-dead when he picks up, but Camille is just glad that he has. Picked up, that is.

“Nathan?”

She hears what sounds like an absolute rager in the background. _Is he at a party?_ Then he lets out an extremely muffled “shit”, followed by a ridiculous amount of noise, like he’s banging his phone into every available surface in his search for privacy. The slam of a door causes her to physically jump.

Still, he says nothing.

“You there?” she asks after what she deems to be a decent adjustment period for him; long enough to settle into a spot, long enough to come to terms with the fact that she’s calling him in the first place. She lets out an exhale that isn’t quite as quiet as she had meant it to be when he doesn’t reply right away.

Then, he releases a long exhale of his own. _“I meant to—”_ he trails off. His voice is soft when he starts. _“I’m sorry.”_

_She forgives him instantly, because how could she not?_

“It’s okay, Nathan,” she tells him, because she’s fairly certain that there’s nothing he could ever do that would make her lose faith in him completely.

He makes a noise of utter frustration and scrubs at his face so roughly that she can hear it. _“No, Camille, it isn’t okay!”_ he exclaims. There’s a loud _bang,_ then a _crash_ , and then he hisses out a strangled _“fuck!”_ that makes her eyes squeeze shut. He shouldn’t be in pain. Not because of her. _Never_ because of her. He gets enough of it from his dad.

He’s silent for so long that she worries he might have abandoned his phone somewhere, or knocked himself unconscious or otherwise decided he doesn’t—

… _doesn’t want to talk to me ever again._

“Still there?” she dares to ask after what has to be five full minutes.

Nathan releases a shuddering, shaking breath. _“Y-yeah.”_

_He’s crying._

Camille rises, her limbs moving faster than her brain, and heads over to her computer. She’s murmuring to him all the while, soothing sounds so insignificant that she has no idea what she’s even saying, because _Nathan is crying_ and that isn’t okay. She pulls up a recording of whale sounds that she knows Nathan sometimes listens to, when he can’t differ reality from his imagination, when the world becomes too much, when he’s so sad that he just wants someone—anyone—to sympathize with him.

And then, she waits.

Waits for him to collect himself, the broken little pieces of him that he can only find if given the time to. She can’t help him through this. She can be there for him, but this is something he will have to do for himself.

 _She wants to help him, though_.

 _“Fuck,”_ he finally manages after probably way too long.

“Yeah,” she agrees readily. “How are we doing, Nate?”

_Because she hopes using the nickname he gives only her the privilege of wielding will put him at ease._

His laughter is bitter.

She takes it to mean _“do you really need to ask, dumbass?”_ and determines that a change of topic is in order. “So, I received an interesting letter in the mail today,” she begins, leadingly.

He snorts and cuts in just as she had fully expected him to. _“Just say you got the wedding invite, Cam.”_ Well, at least he’s finally starting to sound like himself. _“We both know that you only really get letters from Teresa and—"_ he stops short, takes a breath, _“and me.”_ He allows for a sufficiently awkward pause. _“I’m so_ sorry _, Cam.”_

“I know, Nate.”

_“No, you—”_

She waits.

 _“I don’t mean to.”_ His voice is so small when he continues that she can almost picture him all curled up, trying to take up less space, the room dark, bass vibrating through the walls from somewhere in the distance, eyes red and swollen. He’s probably cross-faded right now, simultaneously drunk and high and a little more off-balance than usual for it. “ _And you’re always so fucking…_ nice _about it.”_ He sniffs. “Fuck, _Cam.”_

“That’s because I care,” she tells him, and wonders if he knows how secure, how _earnest_ her affection for him is, because she can’t even pretend it isn’t.

Another quivering exhale, though steadier than the last. _“I—I looked at your photos. Every one of them.”_

Her heart starts to thaw from the inside out. She hadn’t even realized it was frozen. “And?”

 _“Not my style, but…”_ he trails off. This breath is peaceful. _“Beautiful, Cam. So beautiful.”_

Her heart races and her grin is so wide, her dimples threaten to cleave her face in two. “Thanks, Nate.”

_“Yeah.”_

“You know, I’m coming home at the end of the month when school’s over…” she trails off invitingly.

He takes the bait. Of course he does. _“I’ll be there.”_

She doesn’t doubt him, feels the certainty of it in her bones, feels it swell through her chest. “Good! I’m—I’m actually going to…” She pauses even though she knows she’s about to make the right decision. It’s the gravity of the matter that scares her. _It’s bringing it up to her mother._ “I’m not going back to France,” she says decidedly, “not for school. I just—I want to be with you. With Gloria and Teresa. You need me, Nathan, now more than ever…and I need you too.”

_She doesn’t know how right she is._

His laugh is hoarse but genuine. _“Took you long enough.”_

She’s not sure she’s ever been happier.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~Reunited and it feels so good~

Nathan is waiting for her with Teresa at the airport, and even though she has never doubted his _intention_ to come, she maybe just might’ve doubted whether or not he actually would. He is, she thinks with a healthy dose of sympathy, the same boy—no, man, she corrects as she looks at him now—who stopped talking to her in the first place. She wouldn’t have blamed him if he didn’t show; if his mood was too low, if the thought was too daunting, if he wasn’t ready.

So, all things considered, it’s not her fault that she abandons her carry-on and checked luggage (which is quickly snapped up by a smirking Teresa) and launches herself into Nathan’s arms. He expects it enough to catch her, but not enough to brace himself for impact, so when she glomps him with the speed of a freight train, she sends them spinning like a top.

Nathan is tall and thin and pale, but he’s strong enough to hold her, and she can’t help but laugh.

“Jesus, Cam,” he mutters, pushing her away after he’s regained his equilibrium. She half-expects a comment about him contacting his lawyer (which, she guesses, is probably now her mom) to sue her—all in jest, of course. Instead, he tosses an arm around her shoulders and drawls directly in her ear, “Can’t wait until we’re alone, huh?”

Camille makes a show of half-heartedly attempting to remove his arm, but only ends up maneuvering herself closer to him. It’s definitely _not_ intentional, even if her ears are scarlet. “Yeah, I can’t wait to go home with you,” she purrs in reply, arching a brow at him. If this is the game he wants to play, then she’ll oblige.

He opens his mouth to say something in response, but she never gets to hear it, because Teresa makes her presence known by clearing her throat. “Camille, you can’t just leave your things like that,” she scolds lightly. Her teasing is ruined when she unceremoniously passes Camille’s things to Nathan and folds Camille into a hug.

“I missed you,” Camille mumbles into her shoulder.

“Me too, Cam,” Teresa replies, pulling away to smooth down her hair with maternal affection. Teresa is an older woman with graying hair and a kind smile, and it hurts Camille to know that she doesn’t get to see her own children very often. Though, rather selfishly, she thinks that Teresa is a far better mother than Marie and is glad that Teresa’s separation from her own daughters has resulted in her treating Camille like one of them.

Hopefully now that Camille will be home to take care of Gloria, Teresa will be able to take more vacation time. It helps that Camille had been informed that her mother had sold their old home to move into the Prescott Estate; at least now, Teresa would have the Prescott family’s staff to cover for her.

“How are Gloria and mother?” Camille asks, taking her carry-on from Nathan and winding an arm through Teresa’s.

Nathan grumbles, but she knows it’s mostly for show.

“Gloria is very well-behaved,” Teresa says with a smile, “and so is your mother.”

Camille laughs a little at that. “Oh, I’m sure. How’s the wedding planning?”

Teresa shrugs. “With it being only a month away now, things are a little more hectic. I’m sure Nathan can speak more to that than I can.” As the three of them approach the doors, Teresa reaches for both of Camille’s suitcases. “Now, you two sit in the back and catch up while I take care of these bags, okay?”

Camille gives her one last hug and nods to her mother’s driver—a man with sunglasses on despite the cloudy afternoon sky—then climbs into the car and slides all the way over. She turns to Nathan as he settles in beside her. “Whaddya say, Nate? You ready to tear up the town again?”

He runs a hand through sandy hair that’s been gelled into submission. He looks fine like this, but she misses the natural waves more than she thought she would. His eyes, though, have never changed. They’re startlingly blue, the only color on his pale face, and she loves them. “You know it, gorgeous,” he replies, winking.

She can’t stop blushing around him, but really she blames hormones and the fact that he’s been smacked in the face with a puberty stick since she’d seen him last; it isn’t like he’s ever been unattractive, but his face has matured some, he’s grown a few inches, his voice is a little deeper, and—and she’s been looking at him too long. And, based on the way his brows lift as a smirk creeps over his lips, he’s noticed.

“Sorry,” she mumbles, but he gives her a slow once-over of his own and seems significantly less repentant in turn.

“Didn’t call you ‘gorgeous’ for nothing,” he says with a wink.

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever you say, Nate.”

Teresa climbs in the passenger seat, and the driver pulls away from the curb. Camille can’t help but yawn as the time difference starts to catch up with her; right around now, she’d be going to bed. Now that she doesn’t have the anticipation that comes from not knowing if Nathan will actually show up, she’s exhausted.

Nathan slings his arm back over her shoulder and pulls her into the middle seat instead, allowing her a brief moment to put on her seat belt before he holds her closer.

“Glad you came,” she tells him, as she settles in for the car ride from Portland to Arcadia Bay. “Missed you.”

He rests his chin on top of her head and she’s just beginning to succumb to oblivion when she hears his quiet, “Missed you too.”

She wakes up when Nathan shakes her and she buries her head further into his chest in resistance.

He chuckles. “C’mon. Up and at ‘em, bitch, we’re going to dinner.”

“Be my date to the wedding?” she asks sleepily, still refusing to budge.

She feels the way his breathing pauses in response. “Does that mean I get to take you dress shopping?” he whispers in her ear.

She jabs him in the side. 

“C’mon, I didn’t even mention going into the dressing room with you.”

“Gross, Nate!” She can’t resist adding, “Plus, we’re going to be siblings soon.”

 _“Step-siblings,”_ he stresses so immediately and emphatically that she finds herself momentarily surprised. _Why is he_ —and then his tense shoulders drop. “Not related,” he says in a tone of finality, blue eyes catching hers. There’s something imploring swimming in their depths, something that begs her to resist this new development with him and see where it takes them, but it fades quickly back to his easy sarcasm. “After all, why would _I_ ever want to be related to _you?”_

It stings a little more than she thinks he meant it to. Isn’t that what they’ve been for so long now? Brother and sister in all but name? But she bites her tongue, refuses to let it hurt. “Are you kidding? Kristine can’t wait to be my new sister!”

Nathan’s perpetual scowl deepens at the mention of his older sister, so unafraid of his father, so ready to leave behind the Prescott legacy, this little bubble of privilege based on a name that means nothing outside of Arcadia Bay.

Camille loves her.

 _Nathan loves her too, but not without a healthy dose of resentment, because she’ll always be able to do what he can’t_ —

“I swear, on the same day that I got the wedding invite, Kris sent me an invite to be her sister,” Camille continues, keeping her voice light, teasing.

He lets out a breath of a laugh, nudges her. “Alright, alright,” he acquiesces, though she’s not sure what to, not anymore. She’s lost the thread of the conversation, watched it slip through her fingers like silk. He continues anyway, undoing her seat belt for her. “Two Whales. Now. I’m hungry.”

_Live his life for himself, on his own terms._


	5. Chapter 5

They don’t end up going to Two Whales. Not immediately, at any rate.

Gloria attacks her with a fervor that belies her training. Teresa makes an attempt at controlling the giant ball of fluff currently pinning Camille to the floor, but her efforts are futile due to the sheer size of the dog. The older woman settles for snickering beside the pair. Camille giggles all the while, and thinks, fleetingly, that if Sean Prescott were here, he probably wouldn’t be so amused by the situation—but he isn’t here, can’t spoil her fun, and so she laughs, propriety abandoned.

Nathan receives an equally warm welcome from the Great Pyrenees, but it isn’t him that Gloria keeps nearly tripping as they make their way to Camille’s new room. The dog stays at Camille’s heels all the way there, until they finally arrive at what Camille recognizes to be Nathan’s room. Teresa opens the door directly across from his with a flourish.

“We thought this room would be easier for you to remember,” Teresa says, and since Camille’s only visited the Prescott Estate once, almost ten years ago when she was in like kindergarten or something, Camille isn’t quite sure she agrees with Teresa’s logic. “We left it undecorated for now,” Teresa continues, wheeling Camille’s things into the middle of the room, “Since we thought you might want to have some input.” As she speaks, she begins the process of unpacking Camille’s things. “I thought we might take you shopping tomorrow, Camille, so you can get a more…” She gestures towards the drab, Prescott-red comforter, “ _Suitable_ color palette.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Camille notices Nathan moving closer to Teresa, probably hoping to catch a glimpse of Camille’s undergarments, and is reminded, consequently, that she is still starving. “Sounds like a plan, Teresa,” she says, trying to rush through the conversation even as she catches the fabric of Nathan’s sleeve and pulls him towards her. “I’ll be up around nine and we can make a day of it.”

Teresa looks up to agree and notices Nathan’s straying gaze. With the toe of her shoe, she closes the suitcase. “Why don’t you kids get dinner, and I’ll finish up here, yes?”

Camille beams at her, because Teresa really is the best. “Thanks Teresa,” she says warmly, releasing Nathan in favor of giving her another hug. It’s shorter than the last few, and she stoops down to give Gloria some more affection before she gestures to Nate that she’s ready to go.

He slings an arm about her shoulders as he leads her back down the stairs, and while he grabs his keys, Camille starts cooing over Gloria once more. “Who’s a good girl? Who’s my good girl?”

Nathan groans when he sees her, his shoulder set in exasperation. “Oh, c’mon, Cam, can we please get out the door?”

Camille shoots him _a look_. “You’re jealous of my dog.”

He snorts. “No, I’m not.”

She rolls her eyes and goes back to petting Gloria.

Nathan only lasts a minute before he’s huffing out an annoyed breath. “Cam, let’s _go.”_

“Aaaaadmiiiiit iiiiiit,” she draws out, booping Gloria’s nose for emphasis.

He grumbles something under his breath that might be a curse.

She stands and boops him on the nose next. “Come on, Nate, it’s easy. Just say,” she lowers her voice in a comical approximation of his, “ _Camille, I’m jealous of the attention you’re giving Gloria.”_ She leaves out the “because I’m touch-starved, particularly for touches that _don’t_ come in the form of an open palm,” but she’s pretty sure he hears it anyway, based on the way his shoulders tighten. She’s teasing him for it now, but she wonders if she’s fucked up and accidentally made him feel bad in the process. She tries to interject some much needed levity by standing on her toes and vigorously rubbing and tugging at his hair, but now he just looks unamused, irritated, _and_ like someone has been pulling at his hair in the throes of passion, so she’s fairly sure she’s failed.

Especially since her cheeks are now stained red with her thoughts, and her hands are sticky with the residue of his hair product.

He rolls his eyes at her and turns toward the entryway. Without saying anything, he makes his way to the door.

 _She wonders if he’s actually mad, or if he’s just playing it up to make her feel bad_.

He leads her over to a red pickup truck once they’re outside. It isn’t her style, not even in the slightest, but it suits him well enough. The exterior, much like Nathan, is rough and tumble, all beaten up from cold winters and salt, and it’s the same shade of red as his jacket. Conversely, the interior is sweet as hell: it’s fully tricked out, with heated leather seats and a nice stereo system that must have cost a fortune. If it weren’t for the fact that one is a cold hard machine and the other is a truck, she’d swear they were the same—he just has to open the door so that other people can see him the way she does.

“Yours?” she asks, aware that it’s a dumb question, but unwilling to let him fall to silence so easily.

“What do you _think_ , genius?” he replies. She tries not to take it personally, tries not to overthink what would normally be casual banter between them.

 _Because what if she did upset him? He got enough of it from Sean, he didn’t need it from her, maybe he deserves to be a little upset, maybe this_ is _his way of showing it._

“We’re picking someone up,” he tells her as she settles into her seat.

She turns to him with lifted brows. “Oh?”

“A friend,” he clarifies, as though her first assumption would be that he’s bringing along a mortal enemy. She supposes, with him, that anything is possible—he has very few real friends to speak of, so anyone beyond that might very well be his enemy.

He doesn’t elaborate further, and the next ten minutes are spent in silence, until they peel up to another one of Arcadia Bay’s many mansions, kicking out an arc of finely polished marble chips. The lawn is equally as manicured as the driveway, and the home itself looks like it belongs in Architectural Digest. The part of her that loves white and floor-length windows and landscape photography itches for her camera, tucked away safely somewhere in her carry-on. Maybe she can borrow Nathan’s?

A girl with short golden hair that shines brilliantly in the sun steps gracefully from the front door, smoothing down a houndstooth skirt and matching sweater. Even from here, Camille can see the pearls that choke her slim neck. It’s the kind of outfit someone might wear for a date, and Camille wonders who is crashing whose date.

It’s her and Nate’s reunion dinner, after all.

_And yet he invited her._

_And she’s so pretty._

“Victoria Chase,” the girl says in lieu of hello. She somehow makes slipping into the back seat of the truck look easy.

Camille’s fingers twitch. “Camille Villeneuve,” she replies, barely bothering to toss the other girl a glance over her shoulder.

“Victoria,” Nathan informs her, “is my date to the wedding.”

Camille’s heart seizes in response. “I-Is that so?” Hadn’t he just agreed to be her date only a few hours ago? Though, now that she thinks about it, he _hadn’t_ , he had just made lewd comments about helping her pick her dress. Had he been leading her on since then? Had he meant for her to assume his remarks meant yes when really he had Victoria—beautiful Victoria, with her bright hair and pale skin—waiting for him in the wings?

_Does he not want to go with her, or would he just rather take Victoria?_

“I had already told Vic that I would take her before you even asked,” Nathan says, casually smoothing down his hair and then shifting the car into gear. Camille had never even noticed that he hadn’t bothered to fix it after all this time.

_And, even worse, why would he mention that she’d asked him earlier in front of his actual date? She hadn’t meant anything by it, hadn’t meant to encroach on Victoria’s territory, had just thought it made sense for them to go together as soon-to-be-siblings._

_What if Victoria hates her now?_

“Didn’t know when I asked, or I wouldn’t have bothered,” Cam manages acerbically. _God, why would he say it like that?_ She keeps her focus on the window, watches as the town closes in on them, buildings contorting and straining, a twisted metal-morphosis caused by Nathan’s reckless speeding. It’s not as though the police would dare pull him, _Nathan Prescott,_ over anyway.

“Nathan thought it would be nice for me to meet his family,” Victoria supplies helpfully.

Camille is nearly overcome by the urge to rip off her necklace as penance to the iron gods that watch them so closely, the products of Prescott development. “Right,” Cam says through gritted teeth. Because of course this kind of event is a good chance for Nathan to introduce his family to his girlfriend. “In that case,” she continues, “I’m Nate’s soon-to-be sister.”

Nathan all but jerks the wheel and the truck slams to a stop barely within the lines of a parking spot at Two Whales. _“Step-sister,”_ he corrects, “soon to be step-sister.”

“Let’s debate verbiage some other time,” she says as pleasantly as possible. Even though she would love to make a spectacle of closing her door, she refrains; Nathan holds no such qualms and slams it shut.

It is his truck, after all.

“Well, it does seem like you two are…” Victoria’s voice trails off and Camille fights the urge to turn around and dare her to finish her sentence. _“Close,”_ she concludes in a conspiratorial way that has Camille doubting whether or not it’s what she means.

The three of them find a booth with relative ease, Nathan and Victoria on one side and Camille alone on the other. As they browse the menu, Camille wonders what exactly Victoria had been trying to imply, but she’s left with nothing save the decision to order an omelet.

“Cam!” Joyce exclaims as she makes her way over to their table. Camille is just glad that she’s able to break up the tension that clings thick and heavy to their party, wonders how they even got to this point to begin with.

Oh, yeah. Nathan is being an asshole.

“Hi, Joyce,” she greets in return, allowing a genuine smile to tug at the corner of her lips. “Just got in today, thought I’d come and give my favorite diner some business.” She looks to her tablemates to confirm that they, too, are ready to order; despite her irritation, manners will always be important. “I’ll take a bacon and cheese omelet and a coffee, please.”

Nathan orders a burger but substitutes onion rings for his fries, and Victoria, stereotypically, orders a salad. Camille hopes it’s what Victoria wants to eat rather than a need to look elegant or be skinny. Victoria is thin, almost bird-like in bone structure, and the side of Camille’s brain that’s still simmering with barely concealed annoyance suggests that Victoria could stand for a few burgers herself.

“So,” Nathan drawls suddenly as though nothing is wrong, and he hasn’t been behaving like a child for the last hour or so. “I thought I would take you both as my date.”

Victoria and Camille make quick eye contact, _truce_ , and then direct their glares towards him instead.

“Really?” Victoria says, the scowl that crosses her features causing her to look more like an angry pixie than she did previously.

“Maybe I’ll just take Victoria instead,” Camille chimes in, uncrossing her legs to lean forward so she can glare at him more effectively.

Joyce brings over her coffee and waters for both Nathan and Victoria, but Nathan is so distracted by laughing that he can’t say “thanks”— _not that he would anyway,_ Camille thinks, _because everything is an expectation for him_. He expects people to bring him his food, to hold open doors for him, to wipe his—

Camille realizes very suddenly that this whole song and dance has been a trap. “Wow, you’re so funny,” she says drolly as they wait for him to recover. “Were you seriously trying to pit us against each other?”

“What can I say,” he takes a swig of his water, raises his brows challengingly, “I love watching chicks fight over me. Me _-ow_.”

The look of exasperation that she and Victoria exchange in response promises a long and prosperous friendship.

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan and Victoria purposely antagonize each other and that's their friendship, change my mind

While the first five full minutes of their dinner may have been an awkward mess—in, and Camille couldn’t stress this enough _ , no small part _ due to Nathan—the next thirty of it is spent discussing shopping plans, which includes a lot of talk about Nathan “atoning for his sins,” so to speak. Victoria elaborates on the matter by voluntelling Nathan that he is to be their chauffeur and be the designated Bag Carrier.

The date the three of them agree upon is next week, and it looms tangibly in the distance. In the meantime, Camille finds herself inundated with social obligations. It’s been so long since she’s last seen Nathan that suddenly spending nearly every waking moment with him can be exhausting. On top of that, her fledgling friendship with Victoria (and Victoria herself) demand attention. If Camille finds Nathan, the angry, angsty teen boy with whom she’s been friends for practically her whole life tiring after a few years of little to no social interaction, then the experience of befriending another woman—let alone one who fills the preppy-mean-girl-shaped hole in Camille’s life—is practically killing her stone dead.

Saying that Camille isn’t well-versed in what’s considered “commonplace” in a friendship with another woman is a gross understatement. She hadn’t ever thought that the stereotypes of women gossiping and braiding each other’s hair and doing each other’s nails and makeup could be true. But it’s all real, except that Victoria’s short haircut doesn’t allow for braids, and they aren’t so plebeian as to touch each other’s feet; there are people for that.

It still baffles—and bothers—her that Victoria is a summation of YA literary clichés, an amalgamation of  _ Vogue _ and  _ Marie Claire _ and _ Seventeen _ all wrapped up in the visage of an angry pixie with pearls. It’s all so…surface level. Maybe it’s the fact that she knows Nathan better than she knows herself, knows him deep in her bones, knows what he’s going to do before he does. Maybe that’s what makes her long for something… _ more _ from Victoria, but if nothing else, Victoria is extremely private, and Camille knows that these sorts of connections—this sort of  _ trust _ —takes a long time to develop.

So Camille grins and bears it, even if she’d rather be out on a hike, around taking photos, or about reading one of her novels.

By the day they’re set to go shopping in Portland, Camille’s nails are short and neat, her hair is smooth and softer than it’s ever been, and her skin seems to glow. For as much as she might complain to Victoria about how long it took to achieve each individual piece of the puzzle, in the end she finds that the sum exceeds the parts; it’s amazing what a little work has done for her appearance. And, as Victoria points out, Camille has to start preparing herself—both physically and mentally—for the wedding. With the former having been more or less accomplished, Victoria says, Camille can start to think about the latter, though Camille isn’t precisely sure what Victoria is referring to.

Once Victoria has found the address for the first shop (of six, in case they  _ really _ can’t find anything) and Nathan has nearly backed into the family car (“it was an accident, I didn’t mean to hit the gas so hard, I swear”) they leave Arcadia Bay. Nathan blasts rap with the windows down. It’s still a little chilly for Camille’s tastes, so she spends the journey laying down in the backseats, wrapped in his jacket, trying to see if it’s possible to hypnotize herself with the passing greenery, which soon morphs into brick and steel.

It’s a nice day, so they park in a narrow spot in the parking garage (which Nathan fails to pull into not once, not twice, and not even  _ thrice, _ but four times, total) and walk around Portland. Camille insists that they make a pit stop at a tea store, and Nathan and Victoria agree through eye contact alone to indulge her. The meaningful looks they cast each other don’t go unnoticed by Camille, but she chooses to put them out of her mind. There’s no use in worrying about something that she might never understand, and since Victoria insists that Nathan is like an annoying little brother to her, Camille decides to take her words at face value.

_ She doesn’t even know why it bothers her so much. _

At the first shop, Victoria finds The One, a beautiful lilac dress that makes her look even more like Tinkerbell’s long-lost (and grumpier) sister than ever. Even still, she says she should wait and explore her options. She asks the lady at the desk to hold the dress for her so that she can come back for it later  _ if, _ she insists,  _ she decides she wants it, because who knows what she might find elsewhere. _ She even finishes her statement by looking down her nose at the now aggrieved looking cashier.

The lady hadn’t even had a  _ chance  _ to lose the dress, and yet Victoria had put the fear of Chase in her. All Camille can think is that she would hate to be on Victoria’s bad side.

The second, third, and fifth stores also end up being busts for Camille—and they’ll never know about the fourth, because they’d been barred from entry for having a bag of “food items”, aka Camille’s loose leaf tea selection. Nathan had promptly threatened to call Mr. Prescott, and Victoria had been compelled to go into Damage Control Mode, because Portland isn’t Arcadia Bay, and the Prescott name means next to nothing here. Victoria tried to usher Nathan away as though he were a senile man reminiscing about the good old days when the sun hadn’t yet set on the Prescott Empire. Camille had begrudgingly let the other girl put an end to the situation; personally, she’d been more than willing to hear Nathan’s Draco Malfoy, my-father-will-hear-about-this speech. Instead, she settled for watching Victoria’s slight frame wrestle with Nathan’s lankier one for almost three full minutes, until Victoria’s voice was hoarse from restrained whispers and her face was puce with irritation. All in all, it had been pretty amusing, if not a little embarrassing.

By the final store, the glint of determination in Victoria’s eyes has whittled away to nothing—Camille can tell because Victoria doesn’t even smack Nathan for sighing nearly three dozen times  _ before they’ve even entered the store. _ Normally, Victoria would be pecking at him like an angry bird by now, but she just seems exhausted. Camille hadn’t known it was possible for the spiritual embodiment of Regina George to become sick of shopping, but it’s happened. She doesn’t even seem to be enjoying the experience anymore, instead tossing dresses at Camille and examining them with a critical eye rather than appreciating the quality of the fabric or the richness of the color as she had previously.

Victoria has been staring at a certain dress and the way it hangs on Camille’s frame for a solid five minutes when finally, Nathan snaps.

“Why the fuck are we still here,” he bemoans, burying his slightly— _ always _ —shaking hands into his hair. “She looks great, Vic.”

Camille, who has been mesmerized by the way his knee seems to vibrate up and down, finds herself concurring.

Victoria does  _ not _ . “We—” she huffs, “did  _ not _ come to Portland, go to six different stores, and try on  _ a hundred different dresses _ for Camille to just look ‘great!’” she says in a rush, the words coming out in a half-screech, half-squawk that has Camille, in turns, terrified and amused.

But when she puts it like that, Camille can’t help but think that maybe she’s right. “Yeah, Nate,” she says for lack of anything better to say; Victoria’s argument was sound and they all knew it.

He takes a brief break from looking like he’d like to be drowning himself in the nearest body of water to stick his tongue out at her. “Five minutes,” he says. “You have five minutes and then we’re leaving no matter what.”

As much as Camille appreciates his patience today, this won’t do. They’re so _close_. _And Victoria is pretty close to snapping_ _once and for all, too._

“Nate,  _ please _ .”

He refuses to look at her, fully aware that she’ll end up getting her way if he does, and Camille, fully aware of this strategy, leaves the safety of the dressing room door frame to kneel down beside his chair so that he’s forced to meet her gaze anyway. Then, her bottom lip juts out, and brown eyes imploringly meet blue. He lasts a second. She times it mentally, and it’s only a second.

“Fine,” he grumbles out.

She uses his knee as leverage to stand, gives it a break from its side job as a bouncy castle. “Thanks, Nate.”

He shakes his head like he’s given up some vital part of his masculinity in allowing himself to be swayed by her, and Victoria merely observes the interaction with keen interest.

Camille dusts off her own knees. “So, I was thinking,” she begins, hoping this will make all involved parties slightly less irritated with the current state of affairs, “maybe Nathan should head back to the first store and pick up your dress, Victoria?”

Victoria immediately vetoes the idea. “No. No fucking way. Nathan doesn’t know the difference between plum and eggplant, and that  _ cashier _ ,” she says  _ cashier _ the same way one might say  _ janitor _ or  _ public restroom _ , “might have mixed up my dress.”

“Doesn’t plum have more green in it?” Nathan asks, probably just to be an asshole. Camille knocks her knuckles into his shoulder in warning.

Victoria falls for the bait, anyway, quite literally stomping her foot. “See?” She shoots him another Look, this one full of exasperation. “No,” she decides,  _ “I’ll _ go pick up my dress.” She points to the slowly dwindling pile tucked away in the dressing room. “For all that Nathan doesn’t know colors, he  _ is _ a good judge of fashion, so he’ll  _ pay attention from now on—and I don’t just mean leering, Prescott, or I’ll kick your ass— _ and help you pick your dress, okay?”

Before either of them can object or question her in any way, she’s gone.

Nathan and Camille share a look, one of mutual understanding that—

“And,” Victoria bursts back into the small space with all the gravity of a dying star, “don’t even think about not trying on all of them.”

Camille’s shoulders sag, the part of her that was hoping to squeeze in some photography this afternoon relinquishing, once and for all, said hope. There are fifteen dresses left and donning each steadily feels more and more like a chore, and though she slogs through them with all the enthusiasm of someone watching a movie that’s already been spoiled for them, she  _ does _ slog through them, so that’s saying something. She even tries on the dresses that she knows from a glance she won’t like, either because of their color or their cut. Others reveal themselves to have too-short-to-be-appropriate hemlines, or too deeply cut décolletage only once she tries them on. Despite his wolf whistling, even Nathan agrees that some of Victoria’s choices are questionable, considering the context of the event.

The final dress in the pile is a subdued blue number that daringly shows off the vertebrae from the nape of her neck to the middle of her back. It’s more reserved than Victoria’s other choices, with even the color seeming muted, nearly drab, but it suits Camille in personality and in style, and that’s good enough for her.

Nathan’s immediate reaction leaves much to be desired; he takes in the front with a blank expression, then, as he had for all the other dress, gestures for her to do a slow spin and show him the back. When she’s facing him once more, his expression is even harder to read.

_ She hopes that it’s a good thing she can’t tell what he’s thinking sometimes, and not a sign that maybe they aren’t as close as she thinks they are, as she thinks Nathan and  _ Victoria _ are, Victoria who can silence Nathan with a glance sideways, Victoria who winks at Nathan when she thinks Camille isn’t paying attention. _

“I think this is the one,” Camille starts, hoping he’ll agree, both so that they can leave and because she really does like this dress. It’s understated, but elegant enough that she’s sure her mother won’t have a fit.

Who knows what her soon-to-be stepfather will think.

_ And honestly, she doesn’t even care, except for the grief it’ll cause Nathan and Teresa and her mother. _

“Nathan?” she prompts, snapping her fingers when he still doesn’t respond. “What do you think?”

Because even if he doesn’t like the dress, he looked so deep in thought just now that he must have been thinking about something, must have—

“Yeah,” he agrees, rather anticlimactically.

Camille huffs a short breath. “After all the time we’ve spent looking, you’re giving me a  _ ‘yeah?’ _ ” she hisses in a tone that is reminiscent of Victoria. She hopes he knows that it’s also a threat to tattle on him to the other girl.

She doesn’t bother allowing him to reply, whirling back into the dressing room. She feels heat flood her cheeks but is unsure what she’d been expecting from him. What should he have said? She doesn’t know, but certainly something other than  _ ‘yeah’ _ would have been nice. Victoria would have had the right compliment, would have prompted  _ Nathan _ to give the right compliment—

Fuck.

She has a bigger problem. Or, as circumstances might have it, a smaller problem; the zipper is at an awkward angle and she can’t quite reach it. In other words, she needs Nathan. Great.

“Nathan?” she calls hesitantly, unlocking the door so that she can poke her head out at him.

He grunts in reply, barely looking up from whatever it is that he's typing on his phone.

“Need help,” she mutters, embarrassed, and watches as his fingers freeze.

“You need help...?” he trails off, eyes startlingly bright.

“Yeah,” she says, biting her lip. She coughs slightly. “Um, getting—getting the dress off?”

It’s not a question, but it comes out like one anyway.

_ Why is this so embarrassing? _

“Getting the dress off,” he repeats slowly, as though he hasn’t heard her.

She knows he has.

_ Asshole. _

Her flush spreads to her ears, because when he says it like  _ that _ , it sounds so much less innocent than she’d meant. “Y-yeah.” She clears her throat. Twice. “Sorry.”

A wry smile creeps over his lips, but all he does is gesture for her to go back into the room. He closes the door behind him as he joins her, and there’s a note of finality to the door clicking shut that makes her fingers tap against her thighs in anticipation. When they make eye contact in the mirror, she thinks her heart nearly leaps out of her chest, because there’s something about this, something about  _ him  _ right now that is just so—

_ She can’t even put the feeling into words _ .

Nathan takes his time familiarizing himself with the fastenings, and now that Camille thinks about it, she’s not entirely sure how she managed to get the dress  _ on _ to begin with. A similar thought must pass through Nathan’s mind, because his brow briefly furrows, and his tongue pokes out to lick at his bottom lip, one of his many nervous habits.

It’s then that she notices how much taller he is than her, how he towers over her, how his lashes cast shadows under his already dark-with-exhaustion under eye, how  _ cute _ the curl that curves over his forehead, refusing to be tamed, is.

_ He isn’t sleeping well again, is he okay? Is he still having those dreams? _

He begins with the fastener that disguises the end of the zipper, and Camille nearly jumps when one of his fingers grazes her bare skin as he bunches the fabric together and then apart again. He mutters a quiet  _ sorry _ , and then his right hand is braced against her back, finger tips against the same skin he’d only accidentally touched a few moments prior, and her breath is caught in her throat, and then… then it’s over. Her dress is suddenly unzipped all the way down to the small of her back, and that’s that.

_ Except it isn’t _ because his eyes meet hers in the mirror and then he’s turning her around, his knuckles tracing a path back up her spine and she shudders  _ and— _

“I got the dress!” Victoria calls from the hall.

Camille is so startled that she trips into Nathan, their feet entangling in a mess of limbs, and as she frantically tries to separate his legs from hers, they end up smacking into the mirror, causing her to let out a loud  _ oof  _ as she’s suddenly pressed chest to chest with him.

“Nathan, Camille?”

The door opens, and from behind Nathan, all Camille can see is Victoria’s smug smile.

“Isn’t this…cozy.”

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long awaited chapter 7! I know it's been a while since I updated this story, but I have no intention of leaving it incomplete. I would, however, like to see this story get a little more attention. So please, please comment. I write because I enjoy it, but getting feedback is a big part of that enjoyment, and if I see that a story isn't getting as much attention as others, then I won't prioritize it.

_Tick. Tock. Tick. Tok._

“It’s so nice of you to join us this morning, Miss Villeneuve.”

_Tick. Tock._

“Just Camille is fine.”

_Tick—_

“Camille, then.” He smiles kindly at her, brown eyes twinkling as he peers at her from over his reading glasses. “Now, these sorts of sessions are fairly common,” he tells the two of them, and Camille looks over at Nathan as if for confirmation, as though he would know better than his therapist. Dr. Jacoby must notice her skepticism, but he says nothing in regard to it. “So, what will happen is that I’ll speak to Camille alone for a few minutes, and Nathan, you can wait outside. Then the three of us will meet together. I’m sure you’re familiar with this by now, Nathan, yes?”

He nods.

Camille chances another glance at him, finds his leg still shaking, fingers still tapping. When his eyes meet hers, she can see just how little he wants to be here, how he aches to flee.

_She won’t let him._

_She can’t._

With the office located on the outskirts of Arcadia Bay, it’s not like there’s a lot of places Nathan could go while he waits, anyway; he’d have to drive to get anywhere half-way interesting, and she’s fairly confident that he wouldn’t abandon her like that.

It doesn’t change the way her heart clenches when he leaves the room. And though she shoots a reassuring smile at his retreating figure, he doesn’t so much as glance over his shoulder at her.

_She tries not to take it personally, tries not to take offense because this isn’t Nathan’s comfort zone._

“I really am glad that you came today, Camille,” Dr. Jacoby reiterates.

She blinks. As if this had been a decision, something she’d debated, and not something she’d just agreed upon immediately; and she’d do it all over again, despite how boring she’s finding said session—because Nathan had asked her to. But she doesn’t say any of this, just gives him a pretty smile in return.

“Miss Victoria has come in the past, and I always find that Nathan is more…engaged in our sessions when he has support.”

She barely refrains from snorting, because of course Victoria has come before, and if this is Nathan “engaged” then the other sessions must just be Nathan staring at the doctor.

Dr. Jacoby notices. Of course he does. “Something wrong, Camille?”

She shakes her head. “Just…it’s funny that it was Victoria. I mean, of course it was Victoria. Sean Prescott can’t be bothered to shine his own shoes, let alone pay attention to Nathan.” She scoffs at the thought. “Fuck, if he could get someone to eat and digest his food for him, he would, all in the name of efficiency.”

Dr. Jacoby’s brows leap slightly. “Yes, I have contacted Mr. Prescott in the past about having a family session, but he has ignored my calls. And Nathan doesn’t want to bring in his sister. In fact, he speaks very little of Kristine.” He clears his throat. “Perhaps you can fill in some of the blanks, Camille? Victoria has only known Nathan for the last few years, but it’s my understanding that you’ve known Nathan since you were children, yes?”

“Since we were three,” she replies. “He’s my best friend.”

Dr. Jacoby nods, reaching for his pen. He must see her gaze straying, because he quickly says, “Oh don’t worry, I’m just taking notes for my own reference. Please,” he waves his free hand, “continue.”

But she’s at a loss. How do you put so many years of friendship into a few short sentences? _How do you put_ —she feels the ghost of knuckles trailing up her back and shivers, wrapping her arms around herself as though it’ll rid her of the memory.

“Our parents are getting married,” she says, and it’s with none of the same enthusiasm that she’d felt when she first learned of it a few months ago, “we’re a few weeks from being siblings. _Step_ -siblings. He’s—” The words turn to ash in her mouth and she has to choke them out, “we’re—he’s like a brother to me.”

Dr. Jacoby draws out a _hmmm_ and pushes up his glasses. “Yes, Victoria had expressed a similar sentiment,” he says, tapping his pen briefly against his clipboard. “Since you’re not Nathan’s guardian, I can’t explain any of his,” he coughs, “ _afflictions_ with you, but I will ask you if you’ve noticed any changes in Nathan as someone who has known Nathan for…” she watches his eyes trace the paper, “the last twelve years.”

Her fingers freeze on the arm of the sofa. She hadn’t even realized that she’d started tracing figure eights into the cushions until she wasn’t anymore. “Nathan—” she worries about betraying his trust, about disclosing too much, but this is all for the best, and _he asked her to come_. She’ll do her best to help.

So, she talks about how she left for France, and Nathan’s sudden disappearance from her life, how confused she’d been, how _worried_ , then the phone call that had changed it all, and how he’s been acting since she got back. The word that comes to mind now is almost… _clingy_ , like he’s scared she’ll leave again, but this time she’s here to stay, this time she’s risked her mother’s disappointment, _this time they’ll have to pry her away from Arcadia Bay kicking and screaming._

All the while, Dr. Jacoby nods along, hand flying across the paper as he tries to keep up. When she’s finally concluded, he takes off his reading glasses and rubs at his eyes. “Well, Camille,” he says, and she gets a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, “this is certainly more than Victoria was able to tell me, so thank you for that. As for your concerns…I think you being here with Nathan has been good for him. I’ve noticed an improvement between this session and the last one he attended with support. Again, thank you very much for coming, Camille.”

She nods and resorts to picking at a loose thread on one of the decorative pillows while she waits for Dr. Jacoby to retrieve Nathan.

As soon as he’s seated beside her once more, she can’t help but curl into him, shifting her weight from her right to her left instead. He opens to her, _of course he does_ , and curves his arm around her shoulders like she needs protection from Jacoby. Her fingers itch for his, but she settles for this, settles for as much as he’s willing to give her considering their audience.

Jacoby briefly summarizes what Camille had said, tells Nathan he’s lucky to have two friends who care as much about him as Victoria and Camille do, asks Nathan to continue to lean on them for support. Camille desperately wants to ask what he needs support for, what illness he’s suffering from, wants to know if _Victoria_ knows. But instead, she leans her head on Nathan’s shoulder, takes solace in the fact that she’s _here now, she can help him now._

His arm falls to her waist instead, securing her against him, and she feels his warm fingers coil into her shirt, remembers what they feel like against her skin instead—

_He doesn’t see her like that though, doesn’t see her like—_

“Can you do that, Camille?” asks Jacoby, and she blinks away her thoughts, struggles to try and determine what they’d been talking about, smiles prettily to try and distract from her lack of attention.

“Of course,” she says, and Nathan squeezes her in return.

Nathan speaks to Dr. Jacoby alone after that, leaving Camille with a room full of teen magazines and pamphlets about eating disorders and self-harm. She reaches for a fashion magazine that she knows for a fact Victoria has a copy of and tries to immerse herself in it, but she just ends up flipping through the pages in boredom, not really seeing anything she’s looking at.

She wants to be distracted by the light classical music, by the bright fluorescent lights and brighter-still red of _Bipolar Disorder: Learning Ways to Control Your Mood_ , but all she can think about is Nathan’s hand lingering on her hip as she went to leave, his fingers on her back—her breath catches.

What’s _wrong_ with her?

This is Nathan. The same Nathan she’s always thought of as a brother. The same Nathan she’ll only _ever_ think of like a brother.

And yet—

And yet hadn’t it just been yesterday that Victoria had walked into that dressing room? That she had tested and teased Nathan and Camille, insinuating that she’d interrupted some illicit tryst, that the two of them were closer than they’d ever said they were?

And hadn’t Camille’s cheeks gone so red she’d been worried she might pass out? Hadn’t she been embarrassed? If it’d meant nothing—if _Nathan_ meant nothing—then why would she—why _does_ she feel like Victoria had interrupted something important?

But Nathan doesn’t feel that way about her, and he isn’t the sort to fall for one girl or be monogamous. Nathan goes to parties, gets drunk and high on a cocktail of illicit drugs, and fucks girls whose names he won’t remember come morning. That is what constitutes fun for him, and she can’t begrudge him that, can’t ask him to stop.

It hadn’t stopped Victoria from teasing her about it either. In fact, Victoria had privately disclosed to her that she thought Camille and Nathan had been dating this whole time, which was absolutely ridiculous, but was part of why Victoria had insisted that she be the one to pick up her dress from the other store.

But that’s all that it was; ridiculous.

Because, if anything, Camille is purely physically attracted to him, and only because she hasn’t seen him in so long. She doesn’t _actually_ like him, and he certainly doesn’t like her. He never would. It would never happen.

She jumps from her thoughts when Nathan reemerges from Dr. Jacoby’s office, eyes searching the waiting room intently until they find her, at which point his shoulders sag in what seems like relief.

Dr. Jacoby emerges next, and gives her a short handshake and a smile, and wishes them both a good week.

“Two Whales?” Camille asks, heart leaping as Nathan opens the door for her, then slings his arm around her for the short walk to the car.

“Two Whales,” he agrees, grip tightening.

And, just for a moment, she can pretend that things are different between the two of them; that her feelings have no bearing on the matter, and that even if they did, it’s not like he feels the same way.

It’s a beautiful lie.

**Author's Note:**

> Wanna hang out with me? [Join my Discord!](https://discord.gg/phzUsxX)


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